Anchor watch: Poseidon's folly, sailor's sleepless nights

Imagine an erratic stream of 3 foot nautical bucking broncos under your floor. The deep, angry howling sound of their leader Poseidon above, below, permeating everything.

The boat is at their mercy. Our anchor, a muddy claw, reaching deep into the mysteries below us, chain for muscly arm, holds us against the onslaught. All night. 

And we sit in the darkness peering around in our floating capsule, the hopeful against the futile – perhaps by our well wishes and generous doses of worry – that we, and all the other boats, will have strong anchors too.

We employ technology to confirm what we know – the chartplotter, on and ready for duty at the helm reports 33 knots - the wind is pumping. The digital display at once comforting and terrifying. The wind is definitely pumping and no one but us is here to deal with whatever emergency might ensue. And it’s 2am. It’s always 2 am.

This is a relatively common practice called ‘anchor watch’. It always happens in the dead of night, when, by Sod’s Law, all the storms happen. Poseidon loves to taunt the sailors. But tonight he is particularly the bully. The wind begins as forecast about 11pm. It’s now 7am and the seas are still agitated. The wind is still pumping. There is a massive system off the east coast of America and we are feeling it’s wrath.

Weather dictates our life. Weather is our life in many ways. Our plans and destinations and timing – weather. We are sitting in Nassau at this very minute because we calculated the potential for this storm and figured this would be the safest place to ride it out. Hemmed in on all sides by Atlantis Resort, cruise ship docks, marinas and massive bridges.

“We’ll be protected by the buildings” we said.

“And by the cruise ships!” we also surmised.

Well it all came to nothing as the wind and the waves bypassed our imaginary security measures and hammered us all night.

It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. But we’ve learned there’s nothing much to do but carry on as normal until the wind hits the boat! Or the shit hits the fan. Sometimes those are two in the same.

But yesterday in the calm before, we feigned regular tourists for the day. Hid ourselves in the plain sight world of overfed cruise ship visitors.

We are even sporting our version of the farmer’s tan with it being the beginning of the season and all…

We literally joined the ranks of people who are in the festive holiday mood. Sampled the free rum, walked the town, perused the art galleries and marveled at the beach bodies of every shape and size. 

We pretended we would also be heading back to a secure cabin or hotel room for a hot shower and a prepared meal and maybe take in a show or hit the casino.

We looked just like those who would be hitting their pillows without worry of their homes dragging through an anchorage into a concrete wall or another boat while they slept.

But what is sleep to a cruiser on anchor watch? Something he’s not getting tonight.

Later today – if the weather permits - we will sit at the pub just over there on solid ground, amongst the fans and party folk, watching the Superbowl adverts and the halftime show.

Nothing to give away our secret, except maybe a few dark circles under the eyes or an extra grey hair. Nothing but a twinkle in our eyes to hint that we are living at the edge of society’s safety illusion. Living with the wind as our master. Living a life unknown, where the highs are higher than the highest skyscrapers and the lows involve anchors dragging through the mud.

The Flip Side of our Holiday Life: Storms in Paradise

The first sloppy drops of rain hit my face about 1:15am. Close the hatch. An hour earlier we were headed to bed after some hours of mindless TV shows. I noticed lightening illuminating the clouds in the far distance. Not so unusual, but my instinct said “Bring in the cushions, clothes and towels strewn around the cockpit”. I had ignored it. Which meant I had to drag my groggy butt up to go do it now, in the event the rain got a bit heavier. I was lazy, annoyed at being woken, and hoping at least we’d gather some rain water.

“Hahaha!” said the weather gods. “You fool! You have no clue what I’m about to unleash!”. In that moment we were oblivious. We had absolutely no idea how intense things were about to get.

The wind picked up to an eerie howl and with it the sea gathered strength. We and three friend cat(amaran)s, more like sitting ducks anchored on the west side of the world famous Thunderball Grotto, a few hundred metres off Staniel Cay Yacht Club with it’s megayachts lined up on the docks. The wind was coming from the west. Open sea for miles. Open opportunity for nature to create Moby Dick sized ocean waves. And over the next 30 minutes that is exactly what happened. Shiloh bucked and jolted with each growing swell and things in the boat protested. Her walls creaked and groaned with the strain. Bottles and photos and glasses flew about. JW and I stood, holding on, peering out the sliding glass door into the cockpit and at the growing mayhem beyond. Rain pelted down, thunder clapped and the lightening strikes created flashes of daylight in the anchorage. We put the engines on but just couldn’t imagine heading out there to deal with what may come. We’d surely be thrown overboard!

I literally could not believe our anchor could hold us. The dinghy flew up to great heights behind us in the wild waves, and thudded back down, over and over. It was literally unbelievable. It looked as if it would flip with each sequence. We radio’d the friend boats. No one could offer much solace. We all huddled in our respective little vessels, praying in our own ways that this would stop. Nausea overtook my adrenaline at one stage and I fought the urge to hurl my protest into the ocean as well.  

“Let’s go sailing!” we said… “It’ll be fun!” we said….

“It’s a holiday life!” they say! Except when it’s not.

Also, having sailed in the Caribbean and the Bahamas for seven years we know that the wind mostly never comes from the west. Except when it does.

I knew it was really serious when, through the mist and pelting rain I could see the 150 ft megayachts bouncing about on the docks.

And then just like that, two hours later, the storm moved away. But it refused to take it’s bratty stepchild, the incessant swell, with it. We were left with the bitter aftermath. Discovering a couple of the boats had snapped bridle lines, our dinghy fuel tank had flipped and spilled it’s greasy contents into the dinghy, creating a bouncy soup of flip flops, oars and sopped oily rags… our water catcher jug – remember that?! It had been my only hope from the storm as it arrived. Yeah, well, it had been thrown overboard and managed to gulp up a load of sea water. Sigh… we hauled it back onboard and hauled our weary selves to bed.

But it wasn’t to be. “No!” said those pesky weather gods. “You didn’t want to sleep did you?! I have other ideas! You can levitate off your pillows for the rest of the night and swear under your breath as you watch the sun come up over the hatch.”

And the weather gods won. This morning we heard that other had faced a much worse fate than us from that evil storm. A mile away at Big Majors Cay – where the swimming pigs live! – boats were dragging and crashing into each other and the beach. Today’s damage count will be high. But there are more of the same expected for tonight. We need a safer anchorage. So we are on the hunt.

The ‘holiday’ plans of drinking peanut coladas on the Yacht Club patio will have to wait…

Ragged Islands: water water everywhere...

Alan is a pretzel. Literally. Knees hug ruddy cheeks; arms twist above and below. He has worked his way down into the awkward cavity at the back of the boat; a salty pretzel with a wrench. The metal steering tiller arm threatens to behead him as he’s jostled about by the waves below.

Shiloh bucks and jolts in tune with the building seas. The wind is picking up which  was not forecast. Surprise surprise. We are anchored in 8 ft of water over the Exuma banks and land is miles away in every direction. We have come through Hog Cay’s narrow channel at high tide and the next island to find protection is over 30 miles away. In sailboat terms, that’s a lot of hours away.

Night is approaching and we are frantic. On anchoring, we discovered our floorboards floating in the port hull. 

With bulging eyes and sinking stomachs we exchange anxious glances. ‘Are we sinking?!!!’, is what we ask without asking. I stick my finger into the greasy sloshing liquid and realise it’s fresh water. Phew! But wait, this means our entire water tanks have emptied into the dirty bilges. Irretrievable. I want to cry.

A day before, we’d negotiated the tedious tying up at Exuma yacht club and spent an hour or two filling the tanks to the brim for our adventure in the land of remoteness…. $50 later, we left, tanks full, hearts happy and excited.

Now, as the water slapped back and forth with the bouncing of the boat, our hearts, if not our boat, have sunk.

The next 4 hours grind by in a sweaty frenzy, JW and Al pumping the lot of it out into the ocean and running tests with our remaining portable water jugs to locate the cause/leak. 

Our queasy guest downs a Gravol and slinks into a cabin into a comatose state to avoid the drama.

By dark, the lot of us feeling green and gutted; the guys have discovered the culprit. An old shower pipe on the ‘sugar scoop’ (back step) had burst and triggered the water pump. It had dutifully pumped the tanks dry. Sigh.

Well, we have to go back to Georgetown! How will we manage 3 weeks in the Raggeds without a drop of water?!

Alan the ultimate optimist jumps up, unfolded from his yogic position and protests. We do have watermakers. Between our two boats, we will make jugs and fill a tank just enough to give us three quick showers and a sink of dishwashing water a day. So hesitantly we agree, and try to regain our enthusiasm. But clearly this is not a good start.

The official Explorer Guides (many cruisers’ bibles for sailing) describe where we are headed as follows:

“This is unpopulated wilderness… You must be totally self-sufficient here…there is a palpable sense of remoteness… we do not encourage casual visiting… there are no marinas, no Search and Rescue help, no fuel, no water… you are on your own here.”

Sleep comes clawing and drags us under, despite the fact the wind has decided to hand us a further warning. It’s howling and kicking up the shallow waters around us, creating a wild vast washing machine as our night’s shelter.

Two days later, we are sitting on a beach, drinks in hand, snacks set up on a ragged piece of wood, chatting with the crew of two other catamarans we found as we sailed around the top of Flamingo Cay. Seems cruiser life as usual. Normal but for the constant drone of the watermaker motor, sucking in that sea water and miraculously churning out trickles of water we can use! Jugs are lugged up and down the stairs, keeping our tanks just full enough…

Fast forward one more day. The watermaker has died. And we are one further island down into the heart of the Ragged Islands. The area where ‘you are on your own, no help, no water, no marinas etc…. Again those exchanged looks of panic and some added frustration. Sod’s Law applies double fold in remote areas. We are not Robinson Crusoe and this issue needs fixing fast.

6 hours later, sweat, blood, chunks of metal rearranged, hammers, wrenches, rust flakes… the watermaker, having been dislodged from it’s cupboard below and brought out into the light, lies exposed on our cockpit table. A casualty of time and salt air. The prognosis is iffy. 

Alan zooms away in his dinghy with the cracked brushes (an essential motor part), and an idea. And we wait. And in the meantime he carries jugs and jugs of water from his boat to ours. Thanks goodness for buddy-boaters. And best friends. The Raggeds would otherwise have defeated us as the ‘holy’ book predicted.

We try to carry on with the business of enjoying the clear blue waters and white sand beaches while the patient lies like a rusty elephant on it’s makeshift hospital gurney. We cover him in old sheets for the night and hope for the best for the next day.

And doctor Al comes through first thing, sun shining extra bright, the water a blue shade of turquoise… with a home glued potentially life-renewing part!!!! 

After two more hours of surgery the patient is returned to his working compartment and the moment of truth… the on button. IT WORKS!!!!!! It works! Phew. It keeps working. Which means we can keep going. So after some cups of tea for the doc and pouring some libations to the gods of remote boat life… we are off.